


diamond on the crown

by poupon



Series: Saviour [2]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: And he's in love with Credence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Fix-It, How Do I Tag, I'm Sorry, It's the last part told in Percival's POV, M/M, Prose Poem, for sure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-06
Updated: 2017-03-06
Packaged: 2018-09-28 16:06:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10133681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poupon/pseuds/poupon
Summary: you wear your pride like a crown, responsibilities encrusted, shining.





	

_***** _

 

_**One,** _

You was born with the silver spoon, and you are never ashamed of the privileges and the wealth and the power being laid upon you since birth. You are never ashamed for who you really are. You are one of the Graves. You remind yourself every morning, then you wear your pride like a crown, rubies and sapphires and topazes encrusted, shining.

Time passes as more and more jewels fall onto your crown. Your neck aches under the weight but you never take any of them off.

 

 

_**Two,** _

Your family does not really agree with your decision. You do it anyway.

One month and twelve days after graduating from Ilvermony, you become an auror.

It is a lot worse than you think, pains and scars and the screams from your side, from the other side, from the ones in human form, and the ones that are not. From the ones who are alive, and also the ones who are not. It is a lot worse than you expect, charms and spells and curses come flying like lightnings, striking like thunderbolts, bursting like flames on the stakes. Whenever you think you are about to die, you close your eyes, take a breath and come back alive.

You stop counting the wands being raised and you don’t even realise _when_. It is a lot worse than you and your naive young mind had imagined, but someone will have to do the dirty work nevertheless, and you’re always much more willing than you should.

 

 

_**Three,** _

The boy looks at you with sheepish eyes, pale skin, chapped lips, hair the colour of ebony, hands the smell of ice. Shaking like a leaf.

Suddenly, there is this enormous and magnificent diamond dropping on your crown.

You bring him home. You accept him into your bed at three in the morning one night, and when he comes back each night after, woken up by nightmares, drenched in tears and sweat, you silently open your arms. You only hold him in dark alleys, where the lights are so dim he can cry on your shoulder and not bottling up for the fear that you will see the cracks on his face. You will run a hand through his soft hair, whispering soft words, on your face a soft smile you don’t even know exists. He will sink into you, his hands desperately grasping your suit, and you will pat his back gently, kiss his forehead tenderly, telling him he is the only one and mean it.

You come back home more often now as there’s someone waiting. _Someone waiting for you_. You treasure the thought. You treasure the boy. You want everything to be as slow and memorable as possible. You will watch him in silence when he sleeps, delicate limps and heat tugging under your arms, chest rising and falling in rhymth. You will wonder when did you take this diamond from your crown and put it inside your ribcage.

Sometimes, you will sit on the couch by the fireplace, hand combing his hair while he read you books of ancient lores or you tell him stories about the colours of magic. He will look at you with wide eyes, fair skin, rosy lips, hair the colour of ebony, hands the smell of ice. You look at him and you want to hold those fingers so tight they turn to a shade of coral and taste like sunset. You keep these thoughts to yourself.

 _It’s not the time yet_ , you think.

You never know the time will never come.

 

 

_**Four,** _

It happens too fast.

You can only raise a hand and barely block that spell aiming directly at your face. The man with blonde hair and wicked eyes slowly walks toward you while you slowly fall down. Your body betrays you. Your vision blurs. Your brain shuts down. Limps weaken, suffer.

Everything happens so fast and so slow you feel like it takes a whole year coughing out the blood in your lungs, and just a split second apart from when you’re shot in the face to when he kicks you in the gut. You see your crown lying on the ground at the corner of your eyes, thinking so this is the end. You won’t be able to take a deep breath and come back alive like you’ve done a thousand times before. You won’t be able to tell the boy he is the diamond in your beating heart.

This is a suitable ending you’ve foreseen, but something still twists in you when you think about the boy waiting for you at home and how you will never come back.

Lights slowly leave you.

You clutch at the diamond in your chest and drown.

 

 

_**Five,** _

Black. Black. Black.

Red. Red. Red.

You don’t think you will live but you do. And it is worse than death.

There is red from your nose, there is red on your lips, there is red caught at the back of your throat. Your eyes are coated in a mist of red you cannot see anything clearly. Your body is soaked in red and often enough red lights will shoot at you like fangs of the beasts gnawning at your flesh. You will feel like being struck by lightnings, by thunderbolts, tied to the stake and burned alive. And sometimes you drown in black. And sometimes you die in black, with red fogging your sight.

You taste iron under your tongue. The smell of burned skin lingers in your lungs.

 _Only red and black_.

 

 

_**Six,** _

You keep your mouth shut for thirteen days straight, not slipping a word, then he rips your diamond out, leaving you a gaping chest and a still heart. He smirks, all teeth and death threats and for the first time the fear floods over you, the cold collapses on you.

Your crown cracks in half with your screams.

 

 

**_Seven,_ **

Between red lights, he tells you about the boy. About how he doesn’t notice anything. About those times he holds your boy in dark alleys, delicate limps and heat slumping blindly into his arms. About those sheepish eyes once belong to only you now gazing another man at another place. About those ugly marks on his body you once erased now all coming back.

Between red lights, he tells you about what he had done, and what he will.

You know he’s lying but you can barely breathe.

 

 

_**Eight,** _

You remember someone once telling you not to walk this road. Familiar voice, familiar face. You don’t recognise them. Eveything is vague and dull to you now, and you don’t really care.

You are not suitable, they say, you will take all the responsibilities on yourself. As to the death. As to the lost. As to the blames. You don’t listen to them. You don’t really care. You know they are right but you keep walking and never look back.

Your ending will not be an easy one, they say, your hero complex will kill you, and no one want to see that. You try not to laugh. Then you don’t really care anymore. So be it, you say, eyes blazing. You already prepare for it. And as long as you’re alive, you will wear this crown and walk this road.

Sadly, you haven’t prepared for the boy at all. Haven’t prepared for his arrival. Haven’t prepared to see him being ripped away from you. Haven’t prepared to lose your precious diamond, to witness your crown crumbling to pieces on the ground.

Sadly, you have never prepared for that. And your ending will not be an easy one.

 

 

_**Nine,** _

Memories flash before your eyes. Replaying. Replaying. The happy ones, the sad ones, the ones you carve to your heart and the ones you think you already get rid of long ago. You wonder if you are dying. You wonder how you can still _think_.

There’s someone calling your name from far away. You’re too tired to answer. And then there’s nothing.

 

 

_**Ten,** _

When you open your eyes, for a while everything is black.

Then there is _light_. And there is your boy, with teary eyes, bruised skin, trembling lips, hair the colour of ebony, hands the smell of ice. He holds your torn wounded arm so tight his fingers turn to a shade of coral and probably taste like sunset. On his head is your crown, broken but beautiful, all the jewels encrusted, shining. You look at him and for a moment you’re speechless. He thinks he’s dead, but then he comes back. You also think you’re dead, but then you come back as well. He has waited for you. He has always waited for you.

The thought flash through your head. You pull him in, kissing with lips and teeth and tongues, drawing blood, tasting sunset and warmth and sweet silence.

Safe and sound.

_Now is the time._

 

 

*

**Author's Note:**

> So that's part two of the previous one, hopefully I can put up a part three in Grindelward's POV soon enough...


End file.
